


Rapacity

by Winddrag0n



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Hannibal is a ghost, M/M, Non-Explicit Sexual Content, can you even be in an abusive relationship with a ghost?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winddrag0n/pseuds/Winddrag0n
Summary: “Can you hear me?” the man asks, almost sheepishly. He shakes his head as if the absurdity of the situation is only now striking him. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters. “How does this work again? Uh, Dr Lecter, are you here with me?” His eyes twitch down and Hannibal follows his gaze. There is some sort of board between them, covered in letters and numbers, a transparent device of some kind resting in his hand. “Give me a sign. Or something. I guess.”Hannibal isn’t quite sure what the board is supposed to represent so he ignores it in favor of studying the man. He looks quite young, though the look in his eyes gives the impression that he’s older than he appears. Possibly mid to late twenties, if he had to guess. The curls framing his face are wild and sticking out of place. Frowning, Hannibal leans forward to tuck one back into place--and the man stiffens and lurches backwards, eyes widening with surprise. “That-” He cuts himself off. “Okay.” He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. “Okay.”--Hannibal haunts the house he was killed in. No one has lived in it for very long since, until now.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 15
Kudos: 171





	Rapacity

**Author's Note:**

> A little ghost story of sorts for the holiday. I already wrote one where Will is the ghost, so why not try the reverse?
> 
> It goes much worse, this time around. 
> 
> As always, I err on the side of over-tagging, but if you feel I've left out something crucial just give me a heads up!

It’s been in the house for a very long time.

Most of that time is spent asleep, something it abhors. Not because of the experience itself, but rather because every time it rouses, things have changed more and more. The same pattern loops time after time. Someone new moves in, wakes it up, and leaves shortly after. With nothing there to occupy it sleep comes quickly.

There were things like memories, once. Of a life ended what feels like an eternity ago. Maybe, if it was able to stay awake for long enough, things like shadows of humanity may return. Anything to save it from this formless, meaningless existence. It’s like being held underwater, sinking further and further from the surface.

This time will be like all the rest. It knows nothing will change. The coppery scent of blood fills the air and it opens its eyes.

Things are blurry; the only thing in sharp focus are the specks of red and the swirl of blood washing down the drain. There is sound, muffled and unrecognizable. A smudge of a person stands in front of a sink. Objectively, there is far too little detail to recognize the room on sight, but it is intimately familiar with this building. They are in the kitchen. On the counter, near the blood, there is a glint of steel next to a darker spot. It appears that the person cut themselves while preparing food.

Now awakened, it drifts through the house, slowly and methodically. Things are out of place nearly everywhere so it rights them. it knows this will drive the person away, it always does, but still it cannot allow the discrepancy. It at least knows better than to fix things while the person is around.

When the human returns home to the corrected house, it braces itself for a swell of sound, a sharp sting of panic cutting through the air. For a great while the figure stands motionless in the doorway. Eventually, sound arrives, but it’s low, nearly whispered. 

It follows closely as the form moves through the house to study what has changed. Then, miraculously, it  _ stays. _

Things stay in their positions for a while until, while it drifts through the house, it sees a single piece dragged out of place. A chair, most likely, in the living room. It begins to correct this when it is interrupted by a loud cry. The figure emerges from where it had been watching from another room.

The cry isn’t out of fear; it’s closer to victory.

Even now, the person remains. It’s strange. The human obviously knows it is here and yet seems entirely unafraid. They seem content to coexist. Every so often, when it speaks it is louder than normal, like it’s trying to speak to the presence. It cannot hear the words, just that they are being spoken. This existence is more than enough.

But then one night everything changes once again. It hears two words, crisp and clear like never before- “Hannibal Lecter?”

And then everything snaps back into place.

The force with which everything comes flooding back disorients Hannibal and he closes his eyes. He can hear perfectly once more and when he finally opens his eyes, head downturned, he can see his body. Again, he hears his name spoken, less confidently than before. And so he looks up and meets the eyes of the person who now lives in his home. A man, hair brown and curly, jaw broad and sharp. His eyes are a muted blue, run through with gray, a faint look of irritation on his face.

They’re unfocused. Despite the illusion of eye contact, it seems the man cannot actually see him. “Can you hear me?” the man asks, almost sheepishly. He shakes his head as if the absurdity of the situation is only now striking him. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters. “How does this work again? Uh, Dr Lecter, are you here with me?” His eyes twitch down and Hannibal follows his gaze. There is some sort of board between them, covered in letters and numbers, a transparent device of some kind resting in his hand. “Give me a sign. Or something. I guess.”

Hannibal isn’t quite sure what the board is supposed to represent so he ignores it in favor of studying the man. He looks quite young, though the look in his eyes gives the impression that he’s older than he appears. Possibly mid to late twenties, if he had to guess. The curls framing his face are wild and sticking out of place. Frowning, Hannibal leans forward to tuck one back into place-

-and the man stiffens and lurches backwards, eyes widening with surprise. “That-” He cuts himself off. “Okay.” He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. “Okay.” The eyes flick back open. “So, it seems like you can hear me now. I think. Um, I can’t see you, so sorry. I guess, if you’re here and can understand me, just… do that again?”

There’s no real reason why he shouldn’t, so Hannibal leans forward and touches the man again. This time he locks himself in place, a shiver ripping through him.

“Alright,” the man whispers. “So. Um. Can you stop putting all my furniture in a pile outside? It was raining once and a lot of it got ruined.”

Out of all the things Hannibal had been expecting to hear, that was not high on his list. It seems he had corrected things more often than he realized. Now, with the man aware of him and apparently open to cooperation, he doesn’t think he will need to do so again. Intending to be reassuring, Hannibal moves to pat the man on the shoulder.

Except he flinches away again. “Sorry,” the man mutters. “That, uh, doesn’t feel like you might think it does. All it feels like is. Cold. Bone-deep. Guess some of the crap you hear about ghosts was true after all.”

Hannibal looks down at his hand. When he had touched the man it had felt nearly solid, but almost like if he pressed hard enough he would pass right through him. He places a hand over the man’s stomach, ignoring his hiss of discomfort, and presses harder and harder until his hand finally sinks inward and  _ through. _

The man cries out and when Hannibal looks up, distress is plain on his face. His eyes are scrunched shut and his mouth is contorted in a grimace. He leaves his hand there for too long to have just been exploratory before finally pulling away.

Almost immediately the man doubles over, retching. He staggers to his feet and barely makes it to the kitchen before vomiting into the sink. Helpfully, Hannibal takes a glass out of the cabinet and sets it on the counter beside him. It’s taken and used to wash out the man’s mouth. “Don’t you  _ ever  _ do that again,” he hisses. 

_ Did it hurt?  _ he wants to ask. The words don’t seem to come.

“I thought I was going to throw up my entire stomach,” the man mutters, washing the vomit down the drain. “Alright. Look. I don’t really. Mind sharing the house with you. But if you start  _ attacking  _ me, I’m gonna change my mind on that one. I’ll chalk that one up to testing boundaries. From what little the realtor could tell me, it feels like a safe bet to say you haven’t been… properly sentient for a long time. If you even are now.”

Again, words won’t come. Frustrated, he rattles the doors of the cabinets. There, in a drawer- he yanks it open, revealing a pad of paper among other things.

The man picks up on it quickly, pulling out the paper and a strange looking pen alongside it. There seems to be no inkwell in sight. “Right, you died in the 19th century,” the man sighs. “Look, you can just write with it. Don’t have to dip it in anything.” He leaves a scribble on the page to demonstrate.

Hannibal picks up the pen and writes one word-  _ name. _

“Oh,” the man laughs. “Yeah, alright. I’m Will. Will Graham. Nice to meet you, I guess?”

It takes a fair amount of effort to write even one letter, so Hannibal replies with only one more word in response.  _ Likewise.  _

The man- Will- grins. “Polite ghost, aren’t you?” There is a beat of silence before Will rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “I probably shouldn’t be flattering the ghost of a serial killer. Gonna look real stupid if you end up killing me later.” The hand drops away awkwardly and for once, the man seems at a loss for words. “This is… weird. Can you-” He shakes his head. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Do you, um. Want to communicate with me in the first place? I’m not going to make you do that or anything and I have no problems just sort of sharing the house but-”

It’s curious how the man seems to be rambling, out of nerves or something else. Potentially, he just has difficulty with social interaction in general. May be the type to remain silent and struggles to fill the air when their conversation partner is as mute as Hannibal is forced to be. Uncharacteristically, Hannibal takes pity on the man, picking up the pen and writing the word  _ yes  _ on the pad of paper. The relief on the man’s face is immediate.

“Good,” he sighs, tension leaving his body. “Okay. We should. Um, it seems like it takes effort to write on the pad, so maybe we can find an easier way to communicate?”

Hannibal is surprised the man had even noticed. While it’s quite easy for him to move objects less accurately, something that requires much finer motor control like writing words out on paper is a different story entirely.

The man is looking around the room, brow furrowed, and seems to spot something. He walks into the living room, towards a dusty piano sitting forgotten by the fireplace. “This… could work,” he murmurs, pulling out the bench and sitting down at the instrument. “It came with the house. Seems like it’s been here a while.” He flips up the panel covering the keys. “Can you play it?”

That seems easy enough. Hannibal depresses a key but the sound comes out like more of a discordant squeal and Will winces.

“Note to self, get the piano tuned first. Hopefully just tuned and not restrung.” He runs his fingers along the keys. “We can probably figure out a system with this. Uh, look. This is gonna sound weird. About a month ago I found a stray dog with a bad leg. Took it back here, planning on fixing it up, but the thing absolutely refused to even come up on the porch. So thanks for being willing to talk to me.”

Irritation lances through him at the passing comparison to a  _ pet.  _ Angry, Hannibal depresses all of the keys on the piano at once, the sound so loud and jarring that Will nearly falls off the piano bench entirely.

“No, wait, I just realized that sounds pretty bad. I wasn’t trying to call you a pet or anything. Sorry. Just… I guess you’re my only option for companionship.” His expression twists into a grimace. “That sounds even worse. Maybe I should just stop talking.”

But the idea of companionship… it swirls around in Hannibal’s mind. The idea is uniquely appealing. He reaches out, pressing a finger to Will’s shoulder, trying to communicate his feelings on the matter.

A light shiver runs through the man. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to tell me you understand or trying to get me to shut up. Guess the end result’s the same either way.” With that, he flips the panel back down over the keys and stands up. “I’ll go find someone who can fix this thing.”

He stands from the piano and Hannibal follows suit. Where Will goes, Hannibal follows.

Time passes more slowly now that he is awake, like the way it did when he was alive. When Will is home- which is more often than not- Hannibal stays by his side. It seems that the chill of death only hits Will if Hannibal attempts to touch him, not when he is nearby. As such, he is free to remain as close as possible, and stays with the man at all times. When he eats, when he works out, when he showers, Hannibal is always there. The man doesn’t seem to notice- if anything, he simply assumes that Hannibal can hear him from anywhere within the house instead.

It is obvious that the man will not react well to this news or the knowledge Hannibal has gained from it that he otherwise would not have. The night terrors, the angry scar on his shoulder, the way that sometimes Will looks so terribly  _ lonely.  _

That much, Hannibal finds he knows to a painful degree.

For all his chatter, Will never actually speaks about himself other than in passing. He is an intensely private person. Often he will speak about his job- teaching, he has explained, though when the conversation got more specific Will ended up having to go in great detail about the entire history of the police force and then the FBI. At the end of it, he abruptly asked Hannibal if he could read.

“I don’t mean it like ‘are you literate’ or something like that. Just, as a ghost, can you read a book? Can you see the words and turn the pages?”

They test it. Will takes a book off the shelf at random and thankfully, Hannibal can do both. He presses down the highest C on the keyboard, answering  _ yes.  _

“You died in, um, 1802? Is that right?” The tone repeats. “Perfect.”

He does not elaborate further than that. One day, there is a box on the porch, quite heavy from the difficulty with which Will drags it in. When he opens it, Hannibal sees books.

Will looks down at the box with a grin. “Time to teach you what you’ve been missing.”

He starts with world history, then more specific books about America. Surprisingly, there is one about Lithuania as well- it seems the man has done his research on who the ghost haunting his home once was. There are textbooks on every subject under the sun, a great deal on modern technology, and a fair few relating to Will’s own area of study. “It’s not that I think this is the most important thing to learn,” Will had explained. “It’s just the easiest for me to find materials for.”

So Hannibal reads, and he learns.

Will is sitting at his computer, leg jumping up and down, staring at the screen with his face scrunched up in displeasure. Whatever he’s working on, he’s concentrating very hard on it, and judging by the frown on his face it isn’t going very well.

Their language with the piano has evolved from simple yes/no questions to the point where Hannibal can spell out words with it. A pad of paper and a pen sits on a table beside it at all times, for when Hannibal has particularly complex thoughts he wants to express. For this one, he uses the piano.  _ What are you having trouble with? _

For a brief moment, Will looks shocked that someone is speaking to him at all. “Um,” he begins. “My first class is coming up soon and I’m working on the lecture. I’ve never done this before so it’s kind of difficult.”

_ Is there anything I can do to assist you? _

That earns a sly smile. “Can’t really make you work on the slideshow, can I?” It had been a bit of an issue to work around- if Hannibal gets too close to complex electronics, they start to go haywire. Typing on a computer would have been an easy solution to the communication issue but in the end all it accomplished was bricking Will’s laptop. He had offered to get a typewriter, though Hannibal finds he likes their piano language immensely.

_ I could take the place of your students instead. _

“Yeah, that might actually…” Will stands, moving boxes around until he finds what he was searching for. A projector. “Wanted to see what it looked like blown up first anyways, especially since it can get pretty gruesome. You wouldn’t believe the kind of materials they’re letting me use to teach with.”

Will connects it to his computer and sets it up to display on the blank wall opposite the piano. It immediately displays what is currently on his screen, a slide that is nothing but a particularly graphic crime scene photo.

_ Perhaps you should start the lecture elsewhere. _

It makes Will laugh. “That’s not  _ supposed _ to be the beginning. Hold on, let me just-” He restarts the slideshow and takes the remote in hand. “You, um, ready?”

He hits the key for  _ yes,  _ and Will begins teaching.

For someone who has fully admitted to issues with communication, Will is remarkably adept at explaining things in a way that is both engaging and illuminating. He has keen insight into the minds of others, the likes of which Hannibal did not think possible before now. When he speaks on the motives of the killer in question, the thoughts of the victims in their last moments- it seems less like conjecture and more like fact. 

It ends abruptly, and Will rubs the back of his neck. “I’m having trouble ending it.”

_ What you have already done is very impressive. As for the ending, a part of a teacher’s job is to assign homework, is it not? _

“Thanks,” Will smiles. “Yeah, it. What do I even do there?”

_ If you are aiming to teach them your craft, why not simply ask them to create profiles of their own before offering your own? _

He can see the moment the concept clicks home for Will. “That’s so simple I’m kind of ashamed I didn’t think of it.”

_ An understandable oversight. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Will.  _ There is a special tone for the man’s name, a chord that echoes hauntingly when Hannibal plays it. It is one of his favorite sounds.

“Alright. I think I know how to finish this, now. Thank you for helping me.”

_ Anytime. _

Will continues to practice the lecture to Hannibal until he can do it in his sleep. The day of his first class he’s all nerves but when he returns home, he looks relieved. “It went really well,” he tells Hannibal. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

The sentiment is entirely genuine.

Years go by and Will seems to mellow out with time. Though he’s always been the type to speak through his thoughts aloud by the look of it he’s also the type to ramble when he’s nervous, something that slowly fades away as he begins to trust the specter. Will is reluctant to divulge personal information about himself or his past but he lets bits and pieces slip every so often. Before he moved here to teach, he was a cop, and from the way he avoids the subject the career change was not voluntary. The FBI paid for him to finish school so he could teach at the academy, a gesture that seems far too grand for a single man, no matter how intelligent Will may be.

One night, after a few glasses of whiskey, Will tells him about his empathy disorder and suddenly everything makes sense. The fact that Hannibal cannot even be seen was something that he often cursed but now he realizes that it’s the only reason Will can speak so freely with him.

He finds, against all odds, he likes existing like this, quietly shadowing a man as interesting as he is beautiful, offering him a sense of safety and support. A man willing to cohabitate with a serial killer, dead for hundreds of years, someone he can’t even see or hear. Hannibal would be perfectly happy with enjoying their time together for as long as Will is willing to share it.

Until one night, Will stumbles in the house covered in blood and trembling violently, and something within Hannibal rouses in response.

It wasn’t Will’s blood. He’d been dragged out into the field again, against his wishes, only for it to sour and end in him being forced to shoot a man to death.

Will doesn’t speak for a week. He moves through the house as if he is a ghost himself. Every night he tries to drink himself to sleep, stopped only by Hannibal taking the whiskey away from him. It won’t stop the nightmares either way.

He’s sitting at the table, staring at nothing when he finally speaks, voice rusty with disuse. “The scar on my shoulder,” he begins, looking down. “It was a suspect. A woman. What she did doesn’t matter, just that if we caught her she’d be going to jail for the rest of her life. Decided to go out with a suicide by cop instead. When she charged me with the knife I could see it in her eyes. She didn’t actually want to hurt me, just wanted to make me shoot her. So I didn’t. I lowered my gun. When the knife sank into my shoulder she looked just as surprised as I must have.” He closes his eyes. “She regretted it instantly. Jerked back, started to apologize- and then my partner shot her. Got her wish, in the end. I’ve been mad at my old partner ever since.”

Hannibal lets the silence hang in the air. There’s a broader point, here, and he’ll give Will all the time he needs to reach it. After several long minutes Will speaks again. “It was mostly luck we found him. Didn’t fill in his resignation properly, like he was in a hurry. His wife opened the door. Barely had time to ask what we were there for before he slit her throat and pushed her dying body onto us. Jack was the one that tried to save her. All I could think about was getting him. Caught up to him in the kitchen, where he had cornered his daughter. He lunged.” Will’s voice lowers to nearly a whisper. “I pulled the trigger over and over, long after the gun stopped firing. After holding onto that anger for so long I finally understand why my partner shot that woman all those years ago.” 

He cups Will’s jaw with both hands, causing the man to shiver, tears rolling down his face from still closed eyes. He tries to wipe them away but nothing happens.  _ Do you regret it?  _ He mouths, words without sound.

“I’m glad I shot him,” Will chokes out. “I don’t regret it. Not even for a second.” He is starting to shake, now, not from the chill of Hannibal’s hands. “Why don’t I struggle with it? I killed someone and all that I feel is  _ righteous.” _

Hannibal pulls Will against him, leaning forward into a body that isn’t there, and holds him as he hiccups and sobs, until the cold becomes too much to bear.

Will had always been prone to nightmares, the things he saw sticking with him far longer than they would with most. Many nights were spent watching him toss and turn under the covers. While that much remained the same they seemed to worsen significantly in their severity. The man is thrashing on the bed, muttering in his sleep, trying to ward off an unseen foe. It could only get worse. If he woke now, what expression would he wear? Would he be thankful, relieved, or still caught in the throes of terror? Hannibal decides to find out. He leans forward, placing a hand on Will’s forehead, intending for the cold to shock him awake-

-but the world tilts and whirls, enough to force the ghost to close his eyes. He had assumed he’d be done with things like vertigo once he had died. When things feel more stable and he reopens them he is in a different place entirely. A kitchen, large and white, the island in the center, countertops grey. No one else is here.

Before he can leave the room to try and find Will a girl comes stumbling in, begging someone to stop, tripping over her own feet as she backs away, mistakenly backing herself into a corner. She holds her hands up pleadingly as a man steps through the doorway brandishing a knife.

Something about the scenario seems almost familiar despite his surroundings being novel. Could it be that Will is the one who recognizes it, and some of those feelings are bleeding into him? He steps back, away from the drama unfolding, content to simply observe.

And then he hears it, spoken loud and confidently, a familiar voice echoing through the room. “Don’t move!”

Will steps through the doorway, gun drawn and pointed at the attacker, and everything becomes clear. “Drop the knife,” he orders. Only his eyes betray how keyed up and anxious he is. Despite everything, his hands are steady. “I said drop it!”

The attacker instead takes a step forward and Will starts to pull the trigger. His finger barely moves, locked in place, never firing a single bullet. He looks down at the gun in horror before looking back up just in time to see the attacker advance on the girl, using the knife to cut a red line across the length of her throat, sending her gasping to the floor.

“No,” Will is whispering, trying to pull the trigger. “No, this can’t, this isn’t-”

“She’s dead because of you,” the man with the knife tells him, voice echoing with distortion. The knife clatters to the ground. “It’s your fault.”

“I killed you,” Will whimpers, hands falling to his sides. “She’s alive. I shot you.”

“You may as well have killed her yourself.” A noise grows from the distance, the click of hoofbeats against wood and tile. “Your inaction is what killed her. Nothing else.”

Will looks shattered. It seems like he can’t bring himself to retort. Instead, his gaze drops to the ground. The hoofbeats speed and suddenly a pair of antlers burst through his chest, skewering him. Will barely even makes a sound beyond finally dropping the gun.

Behind him is a pitch black stag, clad in feathers instead of fur, kneeling down to impale him. Will reaches up with a shaky hand to touch one of the wounds, fingers coming away soaked in blood. More of it is running from his mouth. He tries to speak but all that comes out is a wet, choked-off gurgle. It must hurt, terribly.

“This is what you deserve,” the man with the knife declares, and all at once Hannibal is sick of watching this play out, sick of the stranger interrupting, sick of him being here at all-

-and then all of a sudden everything vanishes around them, leaving only Hannibal and Will run through on the antlers of the stag.

Interesting.

Their surroundings are more of a void so he experiments, imagining a forest and watching with delight as it forms around them. Here, in Will’s dreams, it seems that he has total control.

Will is still alive but clearly terrified from how abruptly things had changed. He’s used to nightmares but not like this. Hannibal approaches him and watches as he flinches back, unable to escape or even really move from where he is. All he can do is wait with frightened eyes as Hannibal approaches and reaches out to wipe away the blood from his mouth. Will  _ sees him.  _

Two things become immediately apparent. His arm is pitch black and when he looks down, it seems the rest of him is as well, more shadow than man. More importantly, when he touches Will’s cheek, he can feel the warmth and flesh beneath him as if he was alive again. Unable to resist, he places both along the man’s jawline, tilting his head up to look him in the eyes.

A shudder rips through the dying man as he spits up blood. “Please,” he manages to gasp. “Don’t-”

Hannibal trails his hands lower, around Will’s neck, and squeezes until he stops moving.

When Will had woken and thrown them both from the dream he sat silently in bed, eyes closed, tears rolling down his cheek. He doesn’t tell Hannibal about the dream. Why would he, when he won’t even tell Hannibal about his past?

A woman visits not long after. Alana. It isn’t the first time she’s been here, she’s the only visitor he’s ever had, though he could count on one hand the number of times he’s seen her here. She cares for Will, deeply, and it’s obvious that she is one of the few people he trusts.

Hannibal finds himself wishing she would go upstairs so he could push her out the window.

They sit at the table and talk. “I’m worried about you,” she tells Will. “Out here, totally alone.”

She doesn’t know about Hannibal. No one does save Will himself. “I’m not planning on doing anything drastic if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Alana frowns. “Will, just because you’re not suicidal, that doesn’t mean you’re doing well. You were forced to kill someone.”

Beneath the table, where she cannot see it, Will’s hands ball into fists. “I’m fine,” he repeats.”

“You should speak to someone.”

“Do you not count?”

“Officially,” Alana elaborates. Everything she says, from her tone to the words themselves, is carefully calculated to be as reassuring and comforting as possible. 

“Yeah, well, join the club,” Will snorts. “Jack’s trying to get me evaluated to see if I’m fit to go back in the field. That what you’re going for too?”

A smile, small and gentle. “Would you be offended if I told you I was hoping for the opposite?”

“You think I’m not fit for field work.”

“I think that whether you’re fit for it or not is irrelevant. You shouldn’t suffer through the things it does to you.”

Will sighs, tired. “I guess you’re right. I’ll see someone.”

Alana looks pleased. When she leaves, Will speaks to Hannibal.

“I lied to her,” Will admits.

Three notes echo through the room from the piano-  _ why? _

“They were up to eight dead girls when Jack came to me. We caught the killer by the end of the week. I can- I can help people.”

Another three notes-  _ how? _

Will, as always, understands exactly what Hannibal is asking. “That’s the thing about psychiatrists,” Will smiles bitterly. “They’ve got a nasty habit of only hearing what lines up with what they already know. If you’re careful about what you say you can come out the other side with any result you want.”

True to his word, barely a week later, Will returns to working with Jack.

One of the things about his life that Hannibal has remembered is music.

The instrument was a harpsichord when he lived and at some point it had been swapped out for the piano that sits there today. Bit by bit, as he used it to speak, the keys felt more and more comfortable beneath his fingertips until he absentmindedly played a familiar melody instead of properly replying. Will was confused, initially, trying to decipher the message and breaking into a grin when he realized it had simply been music. “You know, I had always wondered why that was there. I know it couldn’t have been that exact one but was it a piano that you played?”

_ Harpsichord,  _ Hannibal replies. The tone of the instrument is different, changing the feeling of the piece dramatically despite the notes remaining the same.

“Guess a piano is more palatable, nowadays. Must have added to the value of the house before it became nothing more than a piece of junk that no one could be bothered to remove.” He sits down at the edge of the bench, correctly guessing Hannibal is seated in the center. “Never had the patience for it myself but I’m glad someone is finally playing it.”

Music became an important part of their lives from that point onwards. Will would buy sheet music for Hannibal to learn and play, something he practiced when the man was gone for work. It evolved into listening to music as well. A record player stood in another corner of the room along with a sound system wired throughout the house capable of playing more modern forms of records. A huge expense, it must have been, but Will had only laughed and said it’s not like he’s spending any of his money himself, so what’s the harm?

Hannibal listens to everything he can but what is considered classical nowadays is what always drew him in the most. Ironic, he had mentioned, that much of what is considered an old classic was written years after his own death. Even when he is not playing or listening the music drifts throughout his mind, an ever-present soundtrack to his afterlife.

It’s natural, then, that it bleeds into Will’s dreams as well.

The soft melody of a piano plays as Hannibal picks the mushrooms out of Will’s skin, as he hands the gun to a child, as he peels the skin away from Will’s back to unfold into wings. He knows that Will can hear it because whenever the melody begins the man’s expression smooths out, taking small comforts when he can. Surely it is only a matter of time before Will realizes what is going on.

Except one day, as he plays a song Will had heard in his bloody dreams the previous night, Will closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When the piece is finished Hannibal taps out a question-  _ Is something wrong? _

Will opens his eyes like he’s startled. “Sorry,” he laughs, no trace of joy to be found. “It. Um. It’s silly, honestly.” The silence stretches as Hannibal waits for an answer. “I hear your piano in my dreams sometimes,” Will finally admits. “During nightmares. It makes them bearable. Not sure if you’re actually playing downstairs or if it just… is a source of comfort for me, now. I know that isn’t why you play but… thank you.”

That’s when he realizes that Will trusts him so absolutely that he will outright ignore signs of danger in favor of believing in Hannibal’s good intentions. How far would it go, he wonders? Would Will still make excuses if he started getting hurt?

The temptation is overpowering, truly. Will suffers so beautifully. But he needs to start smaller, push the boundaries inch by inch so that when Will finally does realize the truth it’s far too late to do anything about it.

He starts with noises. Will is well aware that Hannibal is not entirely bound to the same laws of physics that he is and is capable of moving things in the kitchen while reading in the living room, so he acts just as surprised as Will is when it happens. In the middle of playing the piano he raps on the inside of the chimney three times, sharp and rhythmic. He stops playing just as Will raises his head and looks toward the sound. “Hang on a sec,” he murmurs, closing his book and setting it to the side. When he is leaning against the wall, ear pressed to where the chimney rests behind, Hannibal strikes the inside with a crash so loud it makes the house shake.

Will jumps back, rattled. “Safe to assume that wasn’t you?” Hannibal presses the key for  _ no.  _ “Well. Maybe something fell down the chimney?” In response, Hannibal scratches at the brick and Will takes another step back. “Sounds like an animal. It could get out on its own. If it’s still there tomorrow, I can try and get it out myself.”

It’s amazing how the human brain will ignore evidence of the extraordinary in favor of the answer that will reassure them the most. Will sits back down, and Hannibal resumes playing.

That night, while Will sleeps, Hannibal quietly destroys the study. When Will sees it in the morning his mouth falls open in surprise. “Not an animal,” he murmurs, and from the piano, Hannibal agrees.

Will closes the door to the room and heads back to the living room, sitting heavily down on a chair. He hasn’t been sleeping well, not with Hannibal interfering with his dreams, and the dark circles under his eyes are growing every day. “If there was… something else like you in the house, you’d be able to tell it was there, right?”

_ Yes. _

“What if it was… whatever you were, before?”

_ That is harder to say. If the remains of my victims had never been exhumed then that is a very real possibility. _

Will inhales sharply. “But why only now? If they’ve been here the whole time, why the sudden activity?”

_ Never before have I returned to myself so entirely as I have now. Perhaps the change has disturbed them? _

“How do I get rid of them?”

Hannibal smiles. How easily Will had offered that solution; to remove his victims entirely to preserve their own peace instead of aiding them. This one, Hannibal writes, Will waiting patiently until the message is done.  _ Assuming they are indeed the source of the problem, they are tied to their remains, unlike me. Their spirits must first travel up through the soil to reach the surface before reaching anywhere beyond that. Organic matter, such as dirt, is far easier to move through than inorganic. _

The note trembles slightly in Will’s grip. “If they are out there, if I find them, you know for certain that your bones are not among them?”

He returns to the piano.  _ My body was thrown in the river and my bones carried far away. I am not among them. _

Will closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. “Where did you bury them?”

_ The barn. _

“What happens if there’s nothing there?”

_ We will cross that bridge when we come to it. _

Grimly, Will nods, and heads to the toolshed to grab a shovel.

It takes days for Will to find the femur. Human, unmistakably. He reburies it, smooths the dirt, and then covers everything in a thick layer of concrete until the noises stop.

Slowly, Will is starting to deteriorate. He sleeps very little and when he does he is haunted by nightmares of Hannibal’s own doing. As he weakens and gets pushed further and further into the torment, Hannibal finds he can share the man’s body, stand him up and walk him wherever he likes as long as he remains asleep. Will wakes up on the roof, walking along the highway, ankle deep in the freezing water of the river nearby his home. 

And even still, he does not suspect Hannibal.

There are moments of peace in between the suffering. One, unexpectedly, arrives when Will returns home with a bandaged hand and deep red cuts around his throat.

He’s barely closed the front door before Hannibal is on him, fingers tracing the red lines, sending a shiver down his spine. It remains unclear if Hannibal’s touch has grown less frigid or if Will has simply gotten used to the sensation. “I know,” Will says quietly. “It looks bad. Supposed to keep it covered but the bandages itched too badly and I took them off.”

A chord plays from the piano.  _ What happened? _

“I got somebody killed today.”

When Will heads for the whiskey, Hannibal does not stop him.

As always, the more he drinks, the more willing Will becomes to speak about what is troubling him. “We were arresting a suspect,” Will begins, slumped down across the table. “Well, we were pretty confident it was the killer. That’s why I had two local officers with me. And you know what happens? Just as we step inside his shop, a fucking fight breaks out in front. Total fluke. Two of us is more than enough, I figured. Not like he’s gonna do anything drastic with the cops there. So I told one of the officers to take care of that while the other one went inside with me.” Hannibal presses up at Will’s shoulder, urging him back up into a sitting position. The man goes. “We just needed to get down into the basement, see where he made the strings. Then I’d know. And I was right. I  _ did  _ know. But the next thing I heard was the officer behind me hitting the ground.”

Will takes a big gulp of whiskey before continuing. “Suspect stabbed him, right in the chest, between the ribs and into his heart. Dead before he hit the ground. Lost sight of the killer. Barely had time to call for help before he went for me too.” He holds up his hand to his neck, fitting it in between the gaps in the cuts. “Lucky he left the knife in the other guy. Knew he’d go for the wire, barely got my hand in between it and my neck in time. Bought me enough time before the officer outside came running in and shot the suspect dead.”

_ You made the right decision. _

“I know I did,” Will nods. “Doesn’t change the fact that it got someone killed.”

The question is out before Hannibal has time to reconsider.  _ How much do you know about the circumstances of my death? _

For his part, Will takes the sudden change in topic in stride. “Very little. Even the bit about you being a serial killer was mostly legend until I found the bodies in the barn.”

Though this will be longer, Hannibal plays it out slowly on the piano.  _ It was mob justice. I was a doctor for the community. Well-regarded and loved. Despite that, when people started disappearing, I was the one they came for.  _ These memories, unfortunately, returned with the rest. The screaming off the mob, the pounding of his door being broken down, the sharp pain of the beatings until everything faded away to nothing. Anger at the unfairness of it, the cold realization that he was going to die here. It's hardly a mystery as to why he remains, even after death. 

Will gives a hollow laugh. “Are you going to try and tell me you were innocent?”

_ Of course not. There was nothing to tie me to any of the deaths; they killed me because I was the foreigner. It was nothing more than a coincidence that they targeted the right person. You can do everything correctly and still fall victim to circumstances entirely outside of your control. _

A quiet sigh. “That shouldn’t be reassuring. But it is.”

_ Why did you know what weapon he would attack you with?” _

When he responds, Will is staring straight ahead, at nothing. “Because when I saw the bodies he left I could feel the bite of piano wire across my palms.”

Hannibal realizes, then, that he has made an assumption about Will’s empathy that is entirely incorrect. That night, in his dreams, instead of wrapping the wire around Will’s neck he presses it into his hands and watches as he pulls it so tightly around another’s neck that it cuts down to the bone.

If he is beautiful in his suffering, he is magnificent in his wrath.

It’s so much easier to make Will play the killer like this.

Oftentimes he simply provides the tools and sees what Will creates without suggestion. Other times, he guides him much more directly, standing behind him with his dark hands over Will’s, directing the cuts and the wounds and the way he takes the victim apart.

Eventually the temptation is too much and Hannibal sets up a much familiar scene. He had treated the man’s wife, in town, and had to listen to muttered insults under the man’s breath. Things about his heritage, his capabilities, and his motivations, all false. Hannibal knows what he did to the man. Right now, he is more interested in what Will would have done.

The man spits out the same insults as Will approaches him. If he did not know the person behind his dreams before, he simply cannot ignore it any longer after this. Even here, in the dream, Hannibal can see the light of realization in his eyes.

The first thing Will does is cut out the man’s tongue, shutting him up for good. He kills the man slowly and painfully. A punishment for his transgressions. A punishment on Hannibal’s behalf. He slots himself behind Will as he works, wrapping arms around him, tracing fingers along the curve of his throat as Will shudders and moves back to meet him. The man is warm, pulse fluttering, gasping as Hannibal wraps around him.

Something further away, in reality, pulls Hannibal’s attention and he emerges from the dream. Will is sweaty beneath the sheets, brow furrowed, chest to the bed as he lazily rolls his hips into the mattress.

So Hannibal enters his body, slides Will’s hand lower and beneath his clothes, and allows himself to take. When he is finished he knows with utter certainty that he cannot allow himself to exist without this any longer.

He is dead and cannot come back to life. While they are different, they cannot be together in the way Hannibal so desires.

When Will is at the top of the stairs Hannibal places his palms between the man’s shoulder blades and pushes.

Will, ever careful and observant, reacts far too quickly for Hannibal’s liking. Perhaps he felt the frigid touch on his back and instinctively knew what was coming. He wraps a hand around the bannister, abruptly halting his fall before he slips down more than a couple stairs, foot slipping on the step as his ankle twists painfully to try and reclaim his balance. The sudden stop wrenches his wrist out of place, all of the force of gravity focused on that one joint. Slowly, he slides back down the steps until he reaches the bottom, curled over himself, tears filling his eyes. “Why?” he gasps, cradling his injured wrist against his chest. “Hannibal,  _ why?”  _

Hannibal steps forward, leans down to Will’s level, whispers the words in his ears and marvels when Will  _ hears him.  _ “So we can be together.”

“We’re together  _ now! _ ” Will sobs, the words sticking in his throat. “Is that not enough?”

In response, Hannibal wraps Will in his cold embrace, and whispers  _ no. _

Will is gone from the house for more than a week.

Part of Hannibal fears that he miscalculated, that Will is gone for good and he will never be able to reach the man again. Though all of Will’s possessions remain here the man himself has not returned. Near the end, when movers arrive, Hannibal is consumed with such a blinding fury that it takes him time to notice that they are not accompanied by any sort of moving truck.

They move the bed downstairs and then they leave.

When Will returns, he is silent, jumpy. He knows Hannibal is here and fears what he may do. Surely, in the time he had been gone, he had realized the extent of Hannibal’s machinations. 

Yet he remains.

Every noise throughout the house makes Will tense up. He walks with a slight limp, not entirely healed, the arm that stopped his fall in a brace. Not once does he go upstairs. It’s a week before he says anything aloud.

“They put me on paid leave,” he quietly admits. “When I told them I fell down the stairs because of how exhausted I was they started digging into the reason for it and I had to tell them about the nightmares. Jack was furious I had kept it from him. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to go back.”

Hannibal places a hand on his shoulder, a gesture Will has often found comforting, but this time he flinches away. “That job was close to the only thing I enjoyed. Teaching or working in the field alike, helping others. Now I’m too unstable to do either. Was that your goal? Is this what you wanted?”

His hand moves lower, running down the side of Will’s torso, curving around to the front. When he reaches the man’s stomach he pushes in and through like he had many years ago. Will hisses in pain and doubles over. Though Hannibal cannot do real damage like this, the pain and discomfort it causes are very real.

“Why?” Will asks again, voice shattered. “Why are you hurting me, now? Why do you want to kill me?”

“Why did you return, knowing full well what my goals were?”

“Because you’re the only thing I have,” Will whispers, falling to his knees, and Hannibal smiles.

Will’s sleep is troubled but deep, Hannibal has ensured as much. As the man sleeps Hannibal takes knives from the kitchen, cutting lines and patterns into the man’s flesh, deep enough to bleed but shallow enough to do barely more than sting. Will wakes up to pain and bloody sheets.

It starts a back and forth of sorts. Will buys safes, the kind that can only be unlocked with fingerprints, and slowly fills them with the tools Hannibal uses. Knives are the first to be added, along with his guns, ammo locked away in a second safe. Hannibal would never use firearms and Will knows as much but he does not seem willing to take any chances. Hannibal shatters glasses and throws the shards at Will and Will locks away anything that could be broken into sharp pieces. He throws a paperweight at the man’s head, something deflected by Will’s now re-injured wrist, and everything heavy is sealed away as well. Medications that could be turned to poison, electronics that could be modified to shock, viscous fluids that could be used to turn the floor slippery, all of it is hidden from Hannibal’s reach.

This is a war of attrition and Will is rapidly losing it.

He doesn’t sleep, now, hasn’t in several days. If he tries, the moment sleep seems about to strike Hannibal plays the chord of his name deafeningly throughout the house. His stubble has grown into a beard- he can’t shave, after all- his curls have grown limp and oily, he staggers through the house like he doesn’t remember where the rooms are anymore. 

Then one day in the afternoon, surrounded by safes and emptiness and suffering, something in Will’s eyes changes. 

Will showers. He opens one of the safes, takes his razor, and shaves his beard back down to the stubble Hannibal is intimately familiar with. He dresses himself in comfortable clothes, takes a bottle of whiskey from where it had been locked away, and sits with it at the table.

He sighs, his hands around the bottle shaking as he takes a drink. “I don’t want to do this anymore, Hannibal.”

Hannibal approaches him, helps him drink more of the whiskey, enough to choke, but Will swallows it all down and sets the bottle back down on the table with a slam. He wipes the remnants of the drink from his face. “I know you have one, Hannibal. That it’s hidden away somewhere. Go get it.”

The knife is upstairs, a place Will cannot bring himself to go. It’s trivial to retrieve it and bring it to his hands.

When the knife comes into view Will, despite his facade of confidence, can’t stop the shiver of fear that runs through him. “I’m just so tired,” he whispers, eyes locked on the blade. “I just want it all to end. This is not a way to live. But I can’t bring myself to leave you.” The knife drifts ever closer. Will’s eyes move, from the knife to where it almost seems like he’s caught Hannibal’s gaze. “You win, Hannibal.”

Hannibal places the knife against Will’s neck and the man takes a deep, steadying breath and closes his eyes. 


End file.
